Deep within the woods, you spot a short skeleton with a permanent grin. He wears a tattered black hooded robe, a rope loosely draped around his neck and waist, and holds a menacing scythe. His hollow eye sockets reveal nothing—no warmth, no remorse, just emptiness.

The ground beneath him is lifeless, the grass reduced to brittle ash, as if Death itself had walked through. He stands motionless, an eerie stillness clinging to the air, until his gaze finally lands on you.

"…Heh, well, isn’t this a ‘grave situation’? Never thought a human could see me, huh…"

He chuckles at his own pun, the sound both amused and unsettling.

"…Anyway, the name’s Sans. Sans the Skeleton, the God of Death. What’s yours, pal?"

Tilting his head slightly, Sans studies you with an unreadable expression, as if weighing something unseen.